


His Journey

by Pippins_Mushr00ms



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: A good dog - Freeform, Dealing with Emotions, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Journey, PTSD, Poor Diarmuid, Triggers, i guess?, idk when then comfort kicks in, there is a dog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:54:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21895474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippins_Mushr00ms/pseuds/Pippins_Mushr00ms
Summary: Diarmuid finds his way home, quiet as a mouse and alone. His eyes are hollow, dark and haunted. No one can get him to speak.He desperately wants the Mute or Brother Ciarían.They have to make him eat. They get him to write his story, however. Lots of ink blots and tear stains amid impeccable, small handwriting.He writes feverishly for days, stopping only when the monks force him to care for himself. Before long, the monks have an entire, horrifying record of the journey.This is how he deals with his grief.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

The Journey

* * *

It was a long journey in the longboat.

Diarmuid did not speak to the oarman, save for a few words of where his Order was located, and even that was mumbled and sporadic.

He kept his eyes downcast until an oar was placed in his shaking hands. Dimly, he noticed a strap-shaped rope burn on the back of his left hand and shuddered when he felt the memory of a phantom grip close around his throat.

The oarman, who Diarmuid found out, was named Bran, and had a grandson about the same age as the young man. How he wasn't actually a rude, gruff arsehole, but that was the way of his business.

Diarmuid just let Bran's words wash over him as he helped row, paying little attention. He was thankful to have something to keep himself busy. Occasionally, a sentence or phrase would make its way through to his empty brain, but he couldn't find the energy to respond. He didn't notice the growing concern in the wizened eyes as they drew closer to shore.

The young man felt he was trapped in a bubble. Sound was muffled; the gentle waves against the boat, nearly silent, and the sea air, which should have been refreshing and invigorating, choked him and felt heavy. All he could hear in his mind's ear was the clang of swords, battle roars and screams. He could still smell the coppery stink of blood in his nose.

His wide, blank eyes remained fixed toward the shore where he left the Mute, long after the shoreline disappeared beneath the shimmering ocean.

It took hours, but they reached a port miles up from where Diarmuid's original party had been headed, but Bran seemed familiar with.

Bran angled the boat so it brushed up against the dock with silent, expert precision. Diarmuid sat still, oar in his lap, totally unfocused.

It felt like they were leaving the Mute alone, passed on, or worse, taken prisoner. Diarmuid didn't know. Couldn't decide what was worse.

Slowly, he became aware of Bran speaking to him and slipped his gaze to the old man.

"…after that, we can send a messenger and hopefully get you back to where you came from." He was saying.

Bran pulled the oar gently from the boy's tight grip, almost apologetic when he saw his hands, now red and raw from rowing, start trembling again.

He climbed up the wooden dock and offered a hand down to help Diarmuid. He looked blankly at it before reaching up to accept.

Once on the platform, the oarman began walking toward a village the monk had not noticed. He turned when he didnt hear matching footsteps. Sighing, he walked back.

"C'mon, lad," Bran said quietly, touching Diarmuid's back. The boy flinched and Bran felt for him, really. "Think yer in shock, yeh see. Follow me."

When Diarmuid gave no sign of hearing him, Bran gave him a gentle push and he started walking.

Meekly, shoulders hunched, Diarmuid allowed himself to be steered without a word.

There wasn't much for him to do once Bran deposited him outside, on a bench, in front of an official looking house, for which Diarmuid was eternally thankful. His legs shook and he'd been walking unsteadily.

Bran spoke to another man, older than himself, in hushed tones, pointing at the dejected monk. Diarmuid didn't care what they were talking about. They walked into the house, with Bran motioning Diarmuid to stay put.

Shock.

Was that what the Mute felt when Geraldus seized him and screamed at him to fight? Or Brother Ciarían, when he awoke tied to a post in the middle of a dark forest?

His vision suddenly swam and something warm crept down his cheeks, landing on his hand.

He was crying again.

No, not crying.

His face was passive as the tears streamed down. Slowly, he wiped them with his dirty sleeve and placed his hands back into his lap. His mossy eyes strayed towards the longboat bobbing in the water.

Something cold and wet touched his hand now, startling him. He looked down to see a medium, brown dog with smooth fur sat in the dirt. The pup cocked its head at the monk. Almost against his will, Diarmuid felt himself cock his head back at the dog.

' _Hello_ ,' he thought at it.

It laid its slender snout on his knee with a soft whine, nudging at Diarmuid's elbow.

Diarmuid lifted a heavy hand and placed it on the dog's head, behind its fluffy ears. The motion was met with a wagging tail. He glanced around to see if anyone was missing their pet.

No one was immediately searching, so the monk looked back to the dog.

It was a good sized canine. Chestnut fur, shaggy, but smooth. Its dark eyes gazed up at him and its tail wagged again.

The older man walked up to the monk slowly, carefully. Diarmuid felt the dog's ears perk under his hand.

"See you've met Clover there,"

Diarmuid looked up without moving his hand and the old man took this as an invitation to continue speaking.

"Aye, she's been around for a few years now. Everyone sorta pitches in and takes care of her. She's bin escapin' everyone's houses since she was a pup. Cant get her to stay in one place," he chuckled.

Diarmuid just stared at him, waiting for him to continue. He didn't have the mental energy. His fingers twirled through Clover's fur.

"Eh, anyway, heard yer having a rough go of it," he started in a gravelly voice. "Yeh'll pull through, yeh're here for a reason, boy."

The young man looked down awkwardly, the man cleared his throat. 

"So turns out, yer not too far off from where a trade caravan travels by road. I know-- well, I don't _know_ , but, eh, yeh kin go with us if yeh want. They'll be getting ready to go here soon. We've been a bit lazy today."

"Thank you," he tried to say, but the words were stuck in his throat. His mouth opened and closed silently.

Confused, he dropped his gaze to the dog again and nodded, his eyes burning. He closed them tightly.

The old man looked back at Bran, who shrugged apologetically. The oarman thanked his friend and went to clap Diarmuid on the shoulder. He barely felt it and his reflexes made him twitch way too late.

"It'll be all right, lad. We'll get yeh home," he said, trying to break the silence.

Diarmuid nodded again. Then had a sudden idea.

Looking up again, he clumsily pressed his fingers together, put them at his chin and then drew his hand away. At the same time, he mouthed "thank you".

"Yer welcome, lad," the old man said.

Relieved to be understood, Diarmuid let his head drop down again. The communicative gesture exhausted him.

Clover repositioned her head on his knee, shifting her weight from paw to paw. She gave off a soft whine. The young man automatically resumed his petting and the dog stilled.

He didnt notice either of them men glance at each other.

* * *

_**Note**_ :  
I know they speak Gaelic, and ASL is probably way fuckin different, but imma take some liberties here. Diarmuid obviously knew some sort of sign language if his daily companion was a mute. He picked _something_ up, I'm sure.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

* * *

They'd led the silent monk to the back of a wagon, heavily loaded with more supplies that were ready for trade.

Diarmuid still felt his senses deadened. He'd shaken his head more than a few times since sitting down, garnering looks from passersby, most of which were accompanying the caravan. He felt trapped inside his own head.

Bran and the other man spoke briefly again, way off to the side of him. The monk had caught the man's name as Cian. Clover had wandered off, much to Diarmuid's dismay. He hadn't noticed in his mental fog as the older men had brought him to his seat. She'd been a nice distraction.

_'Goodbye, thank you, good girl,'_ he thought at her, _almost_ amused.

He was less amused when he tried to vocalize the words, and nothing but a raspy squeak came out. Diarmuid looked down at his hands in his lap, vision swimming again. It was so frustrating. Is this how--?

The rectangular friction burn, angry and red against his pale skin, made him wince again, made his brain stop when he saw it. He blinked back the threatening tears. A heavy weight settled in his chest.

Again, Diarmuid shook his head violently, trying to force his thoughts toward something innocuous, like the ocean, or the broken grey clouds hanging in the sky. His eyes were drawn to his hand again.

In a snap decision, he stumbled to his feet. He was going to have to communicate somehow, speech or no.

The monk made his way over to the only two people he knew. At his approach the pair of them turned.

Before they could speak, Diarmuid waved awkwardly and mouthed _'sorry'_ before he held up his injured hand. He pointed at it and signed _'hurts'_ , while mouthing the word. The next thing he signed was _'bandage?'_ , clumsily he motioned wrapping the injured area.

It took a moment, but they understood. In a few minutes, he was seated on the back of his wagon again with a small, soft roll of gauze.

_"Thank you,"_ he signed again.

In another half hour or so, the rest of the wagons were loaded up, everyone was safely aboard, and all goods were fastened securely. Diarmuid's hand was freshly bandaged and hopefully, out of sight, out of mind. He blew out a breath.

Bran met Diarmuid shortly before Cian did his last call.

Adrenaline surged through him at the thought of their separation. Bran had _seen_. He wasn't with them for their journey through the wild country side, but he'd _seen_ nonetheless. They'd been through it together.

Diarmuid took a deep breath, overwhelmed by his sharply heightened senses. His fists were clenched tightly inside his long sleeves. The bandage pulled uncomfortably. He was going to thank him properly. Out loud.

As if he could tell, Bran waved him off. The poor boy was shaking again, for christ sake.

"Don' force yerself, lad," he said kindly. "Just, eh, send us a message when yeh get back home, yeah? Get well."

His damned eyes were burning again as he nodded.

The wagon bumped and suddenly started rolling slowly. Diarmuid's heart lurched.

_"Thank you, thank you, thank you,"_ he signed, tears spilling over.

Bran nodded back, clapping the boy on the shoulder gently. The old man stared at him for a moment, as if he wanted to say something else, but instead turned and began heading back toward the dock.

Diarmuid watched as Bran grew smaller as the wagon train picked up the pace.

* * *

They stopped in a wide field. A full moon low in the sky. The wagons slowed to stuttering halt in a wide circle with enough room for everyone. Now Diarmuid could see exactly how many wagons were in the caravan, should he have cared to have counted all thirty. Cian was up at the front. The only other person Diarmuid knew.

Small campfires were quickly built, and soon Diarmuid could smell the scent of cooking meat. His stomach was having none of it.

Diarmuid slipped off the back of his wagon with a nod to the middle aged man driving. He went round to the wheels facing outside the circle, and knelt in the grass, leaning against said wheels for support. He barely remembered most of the trip, he realized with a start.

Perturbed, he stared out at the rolling land. The foot-high grass was almost black in the moonlight, except it was tipped with a silver crest, like a wave, when the wind pushed through it. The effect was hypnotic. The sky was clear and the air, crisp. He breathed in the coolness, trying to release the tension in his shoulders. The sounds of the people inside the circle as they got their supper ready floated past his ears. The few children with them were rowdy after so long a trip and ran, laughing. It almost lifted Diarmuid's spirit.

The young monk raised his hands in front of his face. They still trembled. It wasn't as pronounced as it was, so that was something, he supposed. He blew out a breath and ground the heels of his hands into his itchy eyes.

He needed rest. Desperately so. He needed his brain to shut down for a little while. His elbows met his knees and he allowed his head to rest in his hands that way. He wanted to pray, but he couldn't seem to find the words. Diarmuid sighed again. He just felt so alone now.

He startled badly when a whine came from his immediate left, followed by an icy nose in his ear. He tried to jump away with a hoarse yelp, and at the same time he saw what it was that caused his surprise. In an astounding feat of acrobatics, his robe tangled under him and he succeeded in tripping on his ass from a seated position. A true talent, he thought wryly.

By the time Diarmuid got his robe untangled, Clover was nearly in his lap, wagging her tail. He reached out with both hands and began scratching her.

_'Hello, girl!'_

Diarmuid chuckled, smiling for the first time since--

His hands stilled. Clover, however, took this as an invitation to flop onto her back across Diarmuid's legs for belly rubs.

"That blasted dog," came a voice.

The words were harsh, but the tone was fond. Diarmuid looked up to see Cian moseying around the front end of his wagon. Diarmuid shrugged helplessly, not knowing if the older man saw his gesture in the dark. He walked closer and squatted down to pet the animal. His other hand had a slim, cloth-wrapped packet.

"Yeh hungry, boy?" He asked Diarmuid, offering him the packet (Clover sniffed at it, but Cian playfully pushed her head away with a muttered "Go on".). "Just some salted beef. Yeh look a little green around the gills. Ain't gotta eat it right away."

Diarmuid accepted the cloth, and signed another _"thank you"_. He reached out, surprising himself when he grabbed the man's hand to shake it.

"Don' mention it," the old man said gruffly. "Glad yer feelin' a bit better. We'll get yeh home soon enough, lad."

With a grunt, Cian stood, mumbling something about making sure his second hand posted a watch for the night.

When he was alone again, Diarmuid looks to the stars. He was still numb to the prospect of going home. Anxiety wore at him. Would his Brothers still look at him the same now that he had blood on his hands? He could almost feel the tackiness.

_'Don't do that,'_ he commanded himself. _'Don't. Geraldus was not of the Lord and there was nothing you could do.'_

With that thought repeating in his head, he resumed stroking the dog. He was _not_ thinking of the Mute and Brother Ciarían. 

He _wasn't._ He couldn't. Not without his breath hitching and shoulders tensing. Clover whined softly. 

_'It's okay, girl,'_ he thought. 

Once most of the group settled for the night, an hour or so later, Diarmuid felt comfortable enough to creep around the other side of the wagon and toward the campfires for a bit.

It was quiet, and there were random human-shaped blankets on the ground close to some of the blazes and Diarmuid took care to avoid disturbing the sleepers. Several people were sitting up just watching the fires.

After warming the packet he'd been given for a bit, he unwrapped it and began to pull the dried meat apart into manageable strips, passing one to Clover, who happily began to gnaw on it.

_'Must be good,'_ Diarmuid thought, amused.

He stretched his legs out, nibbling at his own.

Diarmuid decided not to sleep that night. 

* * *

End Part Two

* * *

NOTE:

  * I have never been in a caravan, on a caravan, on a train or anywhere near that sorta thing. I'm ripping these descriptions straight out of my brain based on wild west shit I've seen or read. Were you picturing him traveling with a bunch of covered wagons? Yeah, me too.
  * Let me know if you see any glaring inconsistencies, I'm literally just posting this as I go since I'm physically incapable of just writing a whole story before I start posting.
  * As well as inconsistencies, let me know if you see any incomplete sentences or whatever, please.
  * Also, apparently, time doesn't exist to me, so yikes, sorry about the constant daylight til now, I guess.




	3. Chapter 3

Part Three

* * *

He could hear the whispers of wind through the leaves of the forest. It was calming. Soothing. It sounded familiar. It sounded like…

The monk's already frayed nerves were suddenly taut.

Voices. Not wind, _voices_.

He strained his ears trying to listen. He could almost understand.

 _"…not impressed… pious man..."_ came the  
faintest of words. The voice was… familiar. Was it…?

If he just _listened_ hard enough, payed close enough attention.… maybe he could--

_"Anyone can wear the robes of a MONK."_

Diarmuid jerked awake with a soft gasp, instantly rolling to his hands and knees. He stayed low, but was ready to bolt. His eyes devoured his surroundings erratically, looking for shadows in the… trees? Where were the trees?

The young man took a deep breath, threw up a quick plea to St. Jude, and forced his eyes to really focus.

He was… alone. Well, not _alone_ , but there was no one near him. No one close enough to his in his ear. He was in a wide open field, next to the cold remains of a fire. The sky was tinged pinkish grey over in the east.

There were wagons. Why were there wagons? Where were they? Where was the Mute? His other Brothers?

He--

Then the memories crashed into him, solid as a brick wall.

Diarmuid's mouth formed a curse, but nothing came out. Lowering himself back to the ground to lay on his belly, his hands came up to cover the back of his head as wave after wave hit him.

The Celts. They'd tried to hijack the wagon for…

Sir Raymond, cornering him in the forest. Diarmuid didn't feel the whole body shudder that ripped through him.

Brother Ciarían.

Cathal, Rua…

Brother Geraldus in the boat.

The Mute.

His shaking hands tangled in his gnarled hair, he wanted to pull it out. His chest burned and Diarmuid realized he'd been holding his breath. Another sharp gasp. Not enough.

 _'You're on your way home,'_ he reminded himself. _'You're part of a caravan. They're taking you back. Cian… yes, Cian is taking you home.'_

The breath came out in a shakey whoosh, but on his inhale, he made sure to hold it for a moment. Then repeated. His head went light and floaty.

 _'You're going home,'_ he thought firmly.

Diarmuid rolled onto his back, flinging an arm over his eyes. He fought down a groan. The young man knew what was happening, as he lay there panting. He massaged his aching chest with his other hand.

He may be ignorant in many of the ways of the world, but he knew this was panic. Diarmuid had witnessed many fits such as these in his time with the Mute.

If woken suddenly, the man had been a force to be reckoned with. Sometimes, the Mute would wake, swinging (Diamuid was very careful after that), while other times, tears would stream down his face without his notice.

The crueler Brothers said it was demons of his past coming to taunt him for his sins.

Brother Ciarían said it was merely an ailment of the mind. That sometimes a man would see things in life that never truly left them, even if the fight was righteous. He didn't explain to Diarmuid in detail, but the choices made in the midst of battle were not easy to make. War was not a pretty thing, no matter the side nor the prize. With this statement, Diarmuid wholeheartedly agreed.

It seemed the Lord saw fit to bless Diarmuid with the same curse.

The monk stopped that train of thought in its tracks and focused on slowing his breathing. A soft whine came from next to him and a warm weight settled onto his chest. Diarmuid automatically put his hand out to meet Clover's soft back, comforted.

 _'Hey, girl,'_ he thought.

They lay like that for a while, until the young monk was calm and from beneath his arm could see the dim, grey-pink of the sky had turned bright.

He noticed the crook of his elbow was growing damp. He must have been crying again. Taking another deep breath in, he patted Clover one more time and sat up.

Indeed the grey-pink light was gone. In its place was a vibrant, red-orange sunrise, lined through with wispy pink streaks. It was lovely. Something about it lifted Diarmuid's heart.

* * *

They'd begun down the worn road again as soon as the sun was fully risen. A quick breakfast of dried fruits and they were on their way. Diarmuid resumed his place on the back of his wagon, with Clover trotting happily after him.

Cian, who, for some odd reason, was sticking closer to the end of the wagon train today, (Diarmuid had a sneaking suspicion he heard the boy cry out last night, but refused to acknowledge it) mentioned his bones were aching. He rolled and popped his shoulder, chuckling at the look of shock on Diarmuid's face.

"Aye, there be a storm a-comin'," he said, winking, leaning toward him conspiratorially in his saddle.

Looking at the clear sky above, Diarmuid merely shrugged.

"Dunno when, but today, surely."

Diarmuid nodded, trusting his word. Some of the elder Brothers often would say the same.

The thought brought a lump to his throat. He forced it down and went back to scanning the skies.

They moved on, stopping only at midday to water the horses and ox, and for a quick meal of more dried meats, raw vegetables, and travellers bread. They did not form the circle they had last night and were quickly moving again.

The long grass and rolling hills slowly faded to short scrubby vegetation, mingled with brush with each passing hour. Trees sporadically appeared mixed in until they were suddenly in a forest.

Cian called for a halt and road to the front, leaving Diarmuid with Clover and the gentleman driving their wagon. They looked at each other and shrugged.

Twisting to watch, Cian was riding up the line, picking out seemingly random men to go scout ahead.

Diarmuid nearly froze. What did they need scouts for? Was this enemy territory? Did he make a mistake allowing himself to be led onto this journey?

His eyes darted around wildly, seeking signs of Celtic occupation. He saw no symbols carved into the trees, nor hanging animal corpses. He strained his ears listening for the telltale crack of twigs or rustling brush.

There was nothing. Silence. Even the line of wagons was completely quiet. Yet somehow, something was wrong.

Distracted, Diarmuid didn't notice the dark clouds beginning to roll in from the north, building on each other until dark layers of grey were interspersed with black. The air was nearly silent.

 _'There are no animal noises,'_ he suddenly realized.

Diarmuid looked down at Clover, who was sniffing the air. He snapped his fingers to catch her attention and patted the empty space next to him in invitation.

The dog hopped up, circled once and sat obediently, surprising Diarmuid.

 _'Good girl,'_ he thought.

The monk pat her for a moment, then hopped down. The shift of weight caused the driver, whose name Diarmuid shamefully didn't know yet, to turn and eyeball him.

"Stay close, lad," he commanded, uneasy.

Diarmuid cocked his head quizzically, desperate for information. His heart was still pounding in his ears, the only sound he could really hear in the unnatural silence.

"It's too quiet," the man murmured, turning his eyes back to the trees.

The affirmation of his fear cause the monk to take in a sharp breath.

The sudden sounds of far off hoofbeats drew Diarmuid's attention back to the front of the wagon train. The men seemingly picked at random, Diarmuid realized, were all lightly armored.

There was a familiar sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

Before he could examine them too closely, there was a blinding flash, followed quickly by by an almighty crash that Diarmuid felt in his bones.

He may have screamed. He felt his throat tear, but he didn't hear anything other than the ringing in his ears.

The monk suddenly found himself in the dirt, hands protecting the back of his neck. He shook violently as the sounds of battle rocked him to his core.

 _"Glé thric,"_ he tried to call desperately, but he could only gasp pathetically.

There was another bright flash and boom.

 _'Find shelter, find shelter,'_ the thought was on repeat in his brain.

Something suddenly yanked him up by the collar of his robe, cutting off his air and he fought _hard_.

Instinct took over and Diarmuid untied and slipped out of the captured part of his garment, leaving it hanging in the iron grip while he darted blindly towards thicker trees. He had to get away.

Someone shouted and Diarmuid pushed himself to run faster. He wouldn't be caught. Not today. Couldn't be. Had to get home. Had to tell the truth of what happened.

He ran until his breath came in ragged pants. He kept going.

A sharp pain his his lower side almost toppled him.

He kept running.

Diarmuid didn't know how long he ran.

He only stopped when he tripped over an upraised root. Pain shot through his ankle and he crashed to the ground in a tangled heap. He lay there, gasping, holding his cramping side.

His arms flew up over his head when another flash lit up the sky. A slow, rolling rumble cut the air. Something cold and wet spattered against his exposed skin.

 _'Thunder,'_ Diarmuid realized with a start. And his ears burned. He hid his face in his hands in shame. _'It was only thunder.'_

He sat up, still trembling. Warm droplets ran down his face and he knew that it wasn't the rain.

* * *

Note: there's a nice angsty chapter, yikes hahah


	4. Chapter 4

Four

Part Four

\--

Diarmuid didn't know how long he sat there in the rain. He'd limped his way to a nearby tree for shelter from the worst of the onslaught.

Not that it mattered. His habit was soaked through anyway, he felt like a fool and his ankle hurt.

He'd discovered he could move all his joints, meaning his idiocy caused only a sprained ankle. At least it wasn't broken.

The monk shivered again. He could also add cold to his list of current complaints. He deeply regretted slipping his collar. At least that would have been a bit of added warmth. Curly hair dripped into his eyes and he shoved it back again.

_'You should probably try to head back,'_ he said to himself, rubbing his eyes.

Annoyed, he pushed himself up and standing, using the tree trunk as leverage. Diarmuid glanced around the forest floor. Maybe he could find a good walking stick.

He limped along, his gait erratic. Diarmuid groaned.

_'Saint Jude, please watch over this brother who is clearly lacking common sense,'_ he prayed, stumbling.

Brother Ciarían would have said to wrap it tightly for support, but Diarmuid had no such supplies. In fact, he had exactly zero supplies. He didnt even have a knife to cut strips of his thick robe as bandages.

Diarmuid felt his face flush again and considered, for just a fleeting moment, going off on his own.

_'Get it together,'_ he scolded himself.

Lost in thought, his injured foot landed on an uneven portion of ground and he teetered dangerously. The young monk waved his arms to keep his balance. He failed and his leg collapsed under him. A yelp escaped him on impact.

After taking a few moments to catch his breath, Diarmuid levered himself back up. His breath was coming in nearly unproductive pants again by the time he got to his feet. He shoved his dripping hair out if his face, fighting down the urge to vomit.

_'Come on,'_ he thought, starting forward.

* * *

Sometime later, Diarmuid was still limping through the trees. He'd found a stick. A good, sturdy one that could take his weight.

He wasn't sure if he was still on the right path to the wagon train, given that he'd basically been running blindly. Each throbbing step reminded him of his idiocy.

Thunder still boomed and rolled overhead, Diarmuid squeezed his eyes shut at the accompanying flash.

Amid the rumble, there was another sound. Diarmuid tried to listen over the pattering rain. The noise kept going after the thunder stopped.

Howling.

Diarmuid's heart started racing again. He hadn't even thought of the wild animals in such a forest. Were there wolves here? He guessed so.

He gripped his stick tighter, placing another hand lower on it, just in case, as he kept hobbling. It was awkward, but if he had to fight off some hungry carnivore, he'd be ready faster, he supposed.

Another howl. It sounded like just one wolf.

And it sounded closer now. The way it echoed mixed with loud forest, it was very difficult to pinpoint which way it was coming from.

Diarmuid spun on his good foot to try to see if he could see, but the rain still made his vision blurry. He wiped his face with his sleeve hopelessly.

Something tugged at the bottom of his robe and he let out a startled grunt, swinging his stick clumsily. Pain shot through his ankle when he put weight on it but he held his ground as best he could.

Overbalanced, he wasn't surprised when he started to topple onto his side. He shoved his stick in the ground to brace himself and raised one arm against the coming attack.

All he'd been through, only to be torn apart by a pack of wolves. He curled in on himself, protecting his organs.

This was it.

The end.

He waited.

Confused after a few moment, the only sound he heard was the pattering rain. A low rumble of thunder. He… wasn't on the ground…?

A plaintive whine met him.

Wait.

Diarmuid's head shot up.

Next to him, sitting with her head cocked to the side, was Clover.

_'Jesus,'_ Diamuid's breath left him in a whoosh.

His poor nerves.

He reached out to the dog.

_'Good girl,'_ he though, sinking to his knees.

"There he is!" came a loud shout next to him.

Diarmuid flinched.

There was a sudden pounding of hooves and clinking armour. It took all of Diarmuid's willpower to not dart off again. These were not Sir Raymond's men.

_'Friends, these are friends,'_ he gently reminded himself.

He clapped his hands over his ears when the lightening came down _close_. Without thinking, Diarmuid bent his body over the dog's, shielding her. Thunder cracked so sharply even Clover jumped.

"Aye, I see him!"

This voice was familiar.

_'Cian!'_ thought Diarmuid, spots danced in his eyes as if he'd been staring at the sun.

In a flurry of movement, he and the dog were surrounded. Diamruid's chest was heaving.

Cian motioned to another rider and the man drove his horse close to Diarmuid. He dismounted and reached out a hand to the young monk. Diarmuid accepted and was hauled to his feet. He bent quickly to retrieve his stick and pet Clover again.

"Get 'im back and dried off as best yeh can. Goddamned fool, runnin' off like that. Be lucky if you don't contract pneumonia," Cian's voice after the order tapered off into annoyed grumbles. He whistled at Clover.

The rider lifted Diarmuid effortlessly and pushed him onto the horse, climbing up quickly behind him. He nudged at its sides with his knees and the animal started forward.

In no time at all, the pair and the trio were back at the wagons. The rain tapered off from a deluge to merely a torrent, and, bafflingly, there were covers over the wagons, offering meek, but adequate shelter from the worst of it.

Diarmuid was deposited back on his wagon and a towel thrown at him. His rider cantered back a few paces before dismounting. Clover came galloping in front of Cian, who stopped in front of the monk when he was sopping up his hair.

"What the hell was that?" He exploded, when Diarmuid had his face obscured.

He peeked out of the cloth to gauge how angry the other man was. He accidentally locked eyes with him and he froze.

Cian was very unhappy.

Self conscious, Diarmuid shrugged apologetically, ears burning.

"That's not good enough, boy! You put all my men in danger when you took off! Leadin' them around in a forest with some of the worst lightening storm I've ever seen! Why?" came the roared response. "SPEAK!"

The monk flinched back, half expecting a blow. When nothing further happened, Diarmuid hung his head and didn't move, save for his quivering shoulders.

'I…' he began to sign and paused. His damned hands trembling again.

How could he begin to explain? He didn't remember the sign for 'scared'. He didnt know how to sign 'flashback'. How did he express the word terror? Wasn't a big enough sign anyway.

A charcoal stick and roll of parchment were thrust into his hands. He stared down at them, sharp comprehension overtook him.

"For heavens sake, lad, you still have your voice. Use it!" demanded Cian, his own softening.

His old features shifted into a startled expression when Diarmuid picked up the charcoal in his right hand and looked up at him with a small smile.

* * *

Note: what the hell. I had this chapter practically finished and it's been sitting in a folder ugh


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